On my way to work every morning, I have to stop at a corner where the sun has risen to a point that every time I look left to check for traffic I end up with a great amount of brightness flashing into my now squinted eyes. I have tried leaving a few minutes earlier or later, but alas, to no avail - there is the sun in all of its ball-y, gaseous glory ready to blind me.
So, I have to begin the process of what I call slowly creeping - this is where I slowly, but with hesitant foot on the brake, make my way out into the intersection and hope that no one is coming from the left, or that if they are, they will be one of those wonderfully weird New England drivers who stop for everyone and everything that want to cut them off (I love those New England drivers).
From that point on in the rest of my 4.1 mile journey to work, I never have to worry about the sun's beams pointing directly into my retina. That is, until I am on my way home from work around lunch time and the sun is high in the sky, being a blazing ball of fire and I can see nothing without the assistance of stylish, Fossil sunglasses. This journey is made all the worse when the wonderful white stuff that I have been loving all winter is around to reflect said beams right into my eyes.
Even though I carry around this hate relationship with the sun on my drive to and from work, I also have a deep, deep love relationship with the sun. Most mornings, I do say most, not all, I am an early-ish riser. Enough that I have my cup of coffee in hand as I sit on my couch with a view of the cove out my window. As I read, the sun slowly peaks his head out and wonderful blues and pinks fill the sky as the sleepy New England town wakes up. Often I am lost in thought as I stare at the beauty that surrounds me - and I feel for just a few moments that part of this was created for me, for my enjoyment, for my delight, for the fact that there is something inside of me that loves beauty and art and creation, and knowing that even the most beautiful manmade painting falls incredibly short in comparison to this moment.
As the day closes, and the sun leaves this side of the earth the sky is once again filled with all shades of pink and orange, and I am reminded that tomorrow he will return. It's as if the sunset with all of its wonder and beauty is there to remind me of what I experienced in the morning, and to let me know what will again happen tomorrow. For the sun is always there, and as long as the moon keeps us spinning on our tilt, we will always rotate around to see it - to have the chance to wake up early and see it, to experience its beauty, part of its very purpose, to delight and have joy in the creation of something so marvelous as the sun rise.
There are plenty of theological illustrations here, but right now, I am just going to leave it and let you explore these thoughts on your own. For now, I am going to enjoy the view.
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